


Better Than Fighting

by arituzz



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed, Watford Eighth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 18:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arituzz/pseuds/arituzz
Summary: This is totally fine. Just a little mishap. Everyone into-thin-airs their stuff from time to time. So what if Simon has to find a new bed? What could possibly go wrong?(Spoiler alert: Everything.)





	Better Than Fighting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eroticgropefest (goldfishsunglasses)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/gifts).



> (This is totally unbeta'd, sorry!)

This is Baz’s fault.

If he weren’t the infuriating, blood-sucker git he is, he would have been in the room while Simon was doing his Magic Words assignment and none of this would have happened.

Simon bangs his head against the wall in frustration. He shuts his eyes, focusing on how the room was before he messed up, wishing real hard to undo the spell. When he opens them again, the bed is still not there. Great.

Just fan—fucking—tastic.

If Simon’s life was a wall sign, it would read: 0 DAYS SINCE LAST INCIDENT. Like the kind they use in factories for accident prevention; except, Simon’s day count would be permanently stuck at zero.

Now what? It’s not like he can go and ask for Penny’s or the Mage’s help this late at night. Baz could help. Simon is sure he knows a nice counterspell in French, or something. But, Baz’s help should be the last resort, since it usually comes with a chorus of insults and sneers.

Hopefully, the spell will just wear off before Baz gets back. Yeah. That’s reasonable.

Simon resolves for taking a quick shower to pass the time.

Ten minutes later, Simon walks out of the bathroom, all clean and ready for bed, when he crashes, face first, into a hard surface, it being none other than Baz’s body. Which would already be mortifying even if Simon wasn’t wearing only boxers.

Baz swears, stepping back. “Be careful, you imbecile,” he hisses, massaging the spot in his chest, over his pyjamas, where Simon just impacted.

“It’s not my fault you were standing behind the door,” Simon retorts. “What were you doing?”

“No,” Baz chides. “ _I_  should be asking  _you_  that.”

Simon gestures to his damp hair. “Having a shower?”

Baz mutters something under his breath Simon can’t quite grasp—certainly not flattery words about how great Simon is—and gestures dramatically toward Simon’s bed. More accurately, where Simon’s bed should be. Emphasis on should.

“Oh.”

Baz raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Care to explain?”

“I, uhm.” Simon curses inwardly. As it turns out, the spell did  _not_  wear off. (And, knowing his luck, Simon bets it will  never do.) “I sort of vanished my bed,” he says.

“You sort of  _what_?”

Simon shrugs and tells Baz how he accidentally made his bed go poof with a simple  **into thin air**.

“Crowley, Snow.” Baz is so worked up any passerby would think it’s Baz’s bed the one that’s gone missing. “You can’t practice spells in my room—”

“It’s also my room,” Simon cuts him, becoming infected by Baz’s anger.

“Yes,  _unfortunately_ ,” Baz fumes.  “Just. Don’t cast spells here. Or anywhere. You’re a walking hazard.”

“That’s…” Baz smirks at him, waiting for Simon to finish the sentence. But he can’t. Because they both know he’s infuriatingly right.

“So, what did the Mage say?” Baz asks.

Simon shakes his head.

“Bunce?”

“Uhm.”

Baz frowns. “Did you tell  _anyone_?”

“Yeah, I told  _you_ ,” Simon protests. “I was hoping you’d know the counterspell.”

“You’re an idiot!” Baz yells. “There’s no counterspell.”

“Look, Baz. It’s okay.”

“No. No, it’s not. It’s the complete opposite of okay.  _You_ are.”

“At least I’m not a vampire,” Simon snaps.

“Go away,” Baz says rushing to his bed. “Find someone.”

“It’s almost midnight. Everyone is sleeping.”

“Then wake them up, I don’t care. Just go find a bed.”

“But I don’t want to bother them.”

“Oh, you don’t want to bother them?” Baz says hysterically. “You don’t seem to have any problem bothering  _me_.”

“I’ll just sleep on the floor,” says Simon, opening his wardrobe. There has to be something he can use as a mattress. “That way I won’t bother anyone.”

“You’ll be bothering the floor for having to stand you.”

Simon ignores him. He grabs a pair of his Watford pyjamas and spreads them on the floor. He lies down on them and tries to find a position that doesn’t feel like he’s lying on high pointed rocks. Baz has already turned his back on him. “You could at least lend me a pillow.”

“No way.”

Simon gives up, standing up and heading toward his desk, slumping on the chair.

“Fuck, Snow,” Baz complains. “Stop. Be quiet.”

“It’s kind of uncomfortable, you know?” retorts Simon. Which is the biggest understatement he’s ever said.

Baz lets out a deep breath, a tale-tell sign that he’s about to insult Simon in at least fifty different languages. It definitely doesn’t prepare Simon for what he says next. “We can share my bed.” It’s so unexpected and Baz’s voice so low Simon is sure he’s imagined it.

“What?” Simon asks, stupidly.

“Nothing.”

“Do you want us to share your bed?”

“ _No_.”

“But you just offered… right?”

“No, I didn’t,” says Baz. “I said leave me alone and die. It’s not my problem your hearing is as bad as your magickal skills.”

Yeah. Sure. Simon isn’t convinced in the least. “You totally offered.”

Baz ignores Simon’s comment but Simon can’t stop thinking about it, making it impossible for him to stay quiet, much less sleep.

“Fine,” Baz concedes, resigned. “Come.”

Simon doesn’t reply, fearing Baz is going to deny it again.

“I won’t say it twice.”

Simon guesses miracles  _do_  happen and Baz can be considerate for one day in his life. “Thanks,” he mutters as he gets into the bed beside Baz, suddenly too aware that he’s in underwear. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

Baz snorts. “You dematerialised your own bed, then you went and had a shower as if nothing happened and didn’t tell anyone. And then,” he pauses. “And then you expect me to just go with it and let you share my bed as if we were best buddies. Yes, very fucking normal. Now shut up or I will murder you,” Baz finishes, and spells the lights off.

Simon scowls at him. “Wait,” he says. “Is this a plot to murder me?”

He can practically hear Baz’s eyeroll. “I swear—”

“Okay, I get it,” Simon says before Baz can finish. “I’ll shut up.”

They stay silent for the rest of the night. And, yeah, Baz was right. This is weird. The bed is clearly not thought for two people and, well, contact is sort of inevitable. Simon stays as far he can from Baz but it’s not enough. Baz’s hair tickles Simon’s nose, so Simon turns around. Which is a complete and utter mistake because then his butt bumps into Baz. Baz’s  _derriere_ , to be precise.

Simon would cut his own feet off for the earth to swallow him up right now. He quickly shifts back to his previous position and tries to sleep.

This is going to be a long, long night.

***

Baz gets up sooner than his usual time and heads for the bathroom; the fact that he needs a very cold shower having everything to do with it.

Baz should have known he wouldn’t be able to sleep all night. He should have known that getting into the same bed with Simon Snow—in boxers!—right after feeding would be a fucking terrible idea. The ironic thing is, deep down, Baz knew. He knew it was bound to go wrong from the beginning. He knew the second Simon’s skin so much as grazed Baz’s body, he’d get an aching fucking boner. And yet he agreed to share his bed. He bloody  _offered_. (He’d do it again.)

His stupid infatuation with Snow is embarrassing. Hopefully, the bed issue will be taken care of today and Baz will never have to share anything with him again. Except the room. And their urgency to make Baz’s life an endless torture.

Not having to share the bed with Simon ever again would be the best that could happen. Yes. Baz knows that. But his cock apparently missed that memo, or it would stop throbbing at the memory of Simon Snow in his bed.

Baz decides to make good use of that memory, since he needs to take care of his boner anyway.

When Baz steps out of the bathroom, Snow is already in his Watford uniform. A part of him—more accurately, his  _lower_  part—can’t help feeling disappointed at the excess of clothes. Thankfully—and pitifully—Baz is already used to suffering the uncomfortable side-effects of pining for his roommate, so he’s able to maintain a straight face while looking at Simon.

“Morning,” Simon says, running a hand through his hair—his move when he’s feeling uneasy or nervous. Baz doesn’t miss the way Simon’s gaze shifts from Baz’s wet hair to his half-buttoned shirt, to the general direction of his groin, before finally settling on his face. “Thanks for last night.”

Baz almost chokes.

Simon’s lips are parted—as they always are—and it’s disturbingly easy to picture him saying:  _Thanks for last night’s mind-boggling sex, best experience of my life. Let’s do it again?_  Simon Snow is so erotic he should be wearing an 18+ warning. “Yeah,” Baz manages, almost getting hard again.

Completely oblivious of Baz’s meltdown, Simon gives him a half-smile before grabbing his things and leaving the room.

 _Crowley_ , Baz thinks.  _This will end in flames._

***

As soon as he shuts the door behind him, Simon lets out a breath. Merlin, that was… awkward. Simon had never shared a bed before so he didn’t know that much contact would make him feel… like that. Restless. He hasn’t been able to sleep at all.

And then there’s the fact that he had a boner.  _Has_  a boner. (Merlin bless Watford’s uniform for its looseness.)

But surely this doesn’t mean anything, right?

Simon shrugs it off and rushes to the dining hall. Breakfast. Breakfast can cure anything.

Turns out he was wrong. Again. Four over-buttered scones and a cup of tea later, Simon’s little problem is still A Problem. And having mental flashes of Baz’s wet hair and bare chest definitely don’t help. At. All.

“Are you okay?” Penny asks him, kicking his leg under the table.

Simon forces his mind back to present time. “Yeah,” he lies. “Just a bit distracted.”

“You’re  _always_  distracted,” Penny objects. “Today you seem… more absent than usual,” she says with that studying face of hers. “Is this about Agatha?”

Simon shakes his head and imagines telling Penny the truth:  _You know Baz, my arch-nemesis? Yeah, haha, turns out I have the hots for him._  Simon grimaces. No way he’s ever saying that out loud. Plus, the attraction is still unconfirmed. Could just be a perfectly natural response to human contact. Nothing to do with Baz. Yeah. That’s most likely it.

Except when Simon finally takes care of his not-so-little problem, the image that comes to mind is none other than Baz. Wet Baz. Baz’s chest. And he’s not going to lie, it’s an amazing fucking orgasm.

Simon rests his head against the side of the toilet stall. Two thoughts come to him at once:  _Wow._ He just masturbated thinking of Baz. And  _fuck,_ because  _he just masturbated thinking of Baz._

The day goes by rather normal—if Simon excludes the whole being-hard-for-his-enemy situation—and soon it’s time for him to get back to the room and sleep. (If sleep was an actual possibility, sharing the bed with Baz.) Which suddenly reminds Simon that he’s an Idiot. realising, too late, that he hasn’t told anyone about the bed.

Baz is lying on the bed, reading a book. He doesn’t pay Simon the barest glance as he enters the room.

“Hey, Baz,” Simon starts. “So, uhm…”

Baz still doesn’t bother looking at him. “The bed?” he asks.

“Yeah, about that…”

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Baz says as he casually leaves the book aside, finally turning to Simon, his expression unreadable. “What’s your fucking problem?”

For a moment, Simon thinks Baz is talking about Simon’s  _other_  problem and can’t help blushing. And yeah, maybe getting a little hard, too. Simon tries to say something but all that comes out of his mouth are strangled sounds.

“Did you also forget how to talk?” Baz scorns. “No, wait. You never learned that.”

“Fuck you, Baz,” Simon snaps, recovering his voice.

Baz walks out of the bed and approaches Simon, his eyes ablaze, before stopping in front of him. Simon tilts his head backwards. Baz rests a hand on the wall, his arm almost brushing Simon’s face. “What do you want, Snow?”

Simon is torn between being freaked out by Baz or… turned on. Because, Siegfried and fucking Roy, this could clearly read as a making-out invitation. (Not that he wants that.) “I—”

“You what?” Baz’s eyes glint maliciously.

“I… might need to sleep on your bed again.”

“Oh? You want to sleep with me again?”

“No! I mean… yes? I mean— Fuck.”

Baz smirks. “Say it.” He’s so close Simon can practically feel his breath.

He imagines closing the distance and kissing Baz. And, fuck. Some things are so difficult to unimagine. Learning the whole history of magicks in one minute would be easier.

Simon turns his head to the side. “No,” he says.

Baz inches even closer, his breath tickling Simon’s cheek. He lingers there for a moment, and then, abruptly, he backs away. “Alright,” he says. “Good luck sleeping on the floor.”

Baz walks to the bed and starts undressing. Simon rests frozen by the wall. Is that… an invitation? No. Of course not. This is  _Baz_. He hates Simon. He obviously doesn’t want to sleep with Simon. Unfortunately, Simon’s lower body begs to disagree, making his pants feel too tight. And then… fuck. He realises Baz was just right here. Baz’s leg was. He surely felt it. He must have. “Wait,” Simon says. “Yes.”

Baz stops midway from putting his pyjama shirt on and looks sideways at Simon, cocking him an eyebrow. “Yes what?”

“I—” Simon sighs and blurts it all out as fast as he can. “I want to sleep with you.”

Baz’s eyes widen, as if he didn’t really expect Simon to say it. So he was just teasing after all? “Okay, uhm.” Baz gestures awkwardly at the bed. “Suit yourself.”

Simon feels a surge of adrenaline caused by Baz’s behaviour. He’s nervous. But, is he nervous because he wants to sleep—like, have sex and stuff—with Simon, or because he  _doesn’t_? Why is everything so complicated with Baz?

Simon steps closer, taking his shirt off. He barely registers what he’s doing when he strips off his trousers. So, they’re doing this. Right? Like,  _doing_  it. Simon should be rather concerned about how much he actually wants to do it. With Baz.

Simon is in front of Baz now and he’s ready to kiss him when Baz grabs his pyjamas and runs to the bathroom.

Okay. It’s fine. Simon focuses on breathing. This is totally fine. He did not just try to go and fuck Baz, his sworn enemy. Simon hasn’t done it with anyone, not even Agatha. He’s not going to have sex with the first person that gives him a boner.

Except, he  _was_  going to. (He wants to.)

Well, Baz clearly doesn’t. What was Simon even thinking? They hate each other. Baz was just teasing him, and Simon was stupid enough to believe it.

Whatever. This is obviously never happening.

Simon walks into the bed, in his boxers, and covers himself with the bedsheets. Even if it’s winter, and even if he has a bloody obvious erection, he refuses to put on his pyjamas. He’s warm enough as it is. He’s just going to have to avoid any physical contact with Baz and he’ll survive. (Probably.)

Approximately ten years later, Baz steps out of the bathroom. “Why are you in my bed?”

Simon raises his head, already half-asleep. “It’s the only bed in the room?”

“I don’t care, get out.”

“But you said—”

Baz is in his poshy green pyjamas. It looks so soft, Simon wants to touch it. So he does. He pokes his hand out of the bedsheets and extends it towards Baz’s chest.

Baz swallows and doesn’t say anything for a minute.

Then, “What. Are. You. Doing?”

Simon hums, because this is a dream. There’s no version of reality or parallel universe in which Simon could touch Baz’s chest and walk out of it alive. “So soft…”

If this wasn’t a dream, Baz would cast a fire from his palm and burn him alive. Or, he would use an ancient spell to disintegrate him. Or maybe he’d go for the good old fashioned way and suffocate Simon with the bed pillow.

But this is a dream, and Baz doesn’t move. And when he finally does move, he just walks into the bed, beside Simon. Simon wraps an arm around him in a sort of hugging way. Baz’s chest rises and falls as he breathes.

Baz spells the lights off. “Good night, Simon,” says the Baz from the dream.

See, this is substantial evidence that this is, in fact, a dream. Baz would never call him Simon. Simon tries to reply but all he can muster is, “Nghnn…”

***

Simon Snow is Baz’s worst nightmare.

It has always been, but now… it’s upgraded. He’s reached a new brand level of torture.

Simon is passed out beside him, his arm wrapping Baz, his boner still very real. How is Baz supposed to survive the night? Baz tries focusing on supremely unerotic things, like homework, or the Mage’s outfit, but it’s a battle Simon keeps winning. The Simon from one hour ago, pressed against the wall; the Simon from forty minutes ago, stripping down in front of Baz; the Simon of right now, rubbing his dick against Baz’s arse.

Baz stops breathing altogether.

What on Crowley’s name has he done to deserve such punishment? Because Simon is sleeping, completely unconscious of what he’s doing, rubbing himself against Baz.

As they say, every action has a reaction. Case in point: Baz is suddenly licking Simon’s finger. When he realises what he’s doing and recovers from the mortification, Baz retreats and turns onto his belly, pressing his hardness against the mattress. Much safer there.

Simon groans beside Baz, probably due to the sudden lack of contact. Baz wonders what could he possibly be dreaming about, or rather  _whom_. Probably Wellbelove.

Simon is quiet for ten milliseconds—record-breaking, for him—before tangling his leg with Baz’s and pressing his erection against Baz’s side. Aleister Crowley. Baz realises with dismay he’s started moving against the mattress. Part of him is screaming about how incredibly wrong this is and that he should wake Simon up. Well, that part of him is also alarmingly averse to self-preservation.

Baz is ready to keep going like that until… Well, until the inevitable happens. But then Simon whispers his name against his ear. Baz freezes. Could it be Simon… is dreaming about him? “Is this okay?” Simon asks.

Is it possible Simon isn’t actually sleeping? That he’s doing it… on purpose? Because he wants to? Ha, right. Baz would rather believe he’s under a spell.

Except, Simon  _is_  awake. “Baz,” he repeats. “I know that you’re not sleeping.”

Maybe if he shuts his eyes hard enough, none of this would be real and Baz wouldn’t have to give explanations to his enemy-slash-crush as to why he’s letting all this frottage happen.  _Yes, I’m awake. And I’m in love with you_ , he imagines himself saying. Instead, he rests immobile. Maybe if he stands still enough, Simon will believe he’s sleeping.

The plan seems to work. Simon retreats his arm and leg from Baz and distances himself a few inches. It would be a lie to say Baz doesn’t already miss the contact.

When he’s sure Simon is finally fallen asleep, Baz turns around towards him, eyes shut, letting his body seek for that lost contact. (If Simon catches him he’ll just pretend to be sleeping.)

Baz subtly wraps a leg around Simon’s body, being very careful so that he doesn’t accidentally touch Simon’s dick. Baz can’t help bringing a hand to his own erection. It’s so good, but it’s not enough. Baz wants to see Simon’s face. With all his stupid moles and his stupid curls. It’s fine, because Simon is sleeping.

Baz opens his eyes.

And oh, is it so  _not_  fine.

Simon is staring intently at him, eyes wide open. A mix of something that looks like anger and confusion written on his face. Fuck. There’s no going back from this. Or maybe there is. Baz can still close his eyes and pretend to sleep. If sleepwalkers exist why can’t sleep-masturbating be a thing, too? Plus, Simon started.

But Baz can’t bring himself to close his eyes. “Simon, I—”

And then the apocalypse arrives, because Simon is suddenly kissing him. Not gently, not softly. All that anger that was on his eyes, rushing to his lips. Definitely not sleep-kissing. More like wild kissing. The kind of kissing Baz is used to—in his fantasies. With teeth and tongue and all. Baz opens his mouth without complain. Without ever leaving Baz’s mouth, Simon props himself up on top of Baz, resting his weight on his elbows, his hands on Baz’s face. And then he presses his hardness against Baz’s. Baz responds by letting out an embarrassing moan.

Simon makes a small sound that travels all the way to Baz’s groin. Baz is grabbing Simon by his curls, pulling him down, and starts moving along Simon, their mouths letting their tongues play.

Simon runs a hand through Baz’s body until finally settling right above his pyjama bottoms. He fumbles with the hem, as they keep moving and ravaging each other’s mouths. Then, Simon stops everything altogether. “Wait,” he says. Baz starts panicking. Was he just teasing? “I’m not dreaming,” finishes Simon.

Baz doesn’t know what to say. He’s so tempted to say  _Yes, you are dreaming, come back here and kiss me_ , but he can only shake his head.

Simon frowns at him. “So, this is a plot?”

Simon’s question causes two reactions on Baz. The first one: Mental facepalm. Why can’t Simon stop being Simon bloody Snow for one minute? The second one: Baz is even harder.

Baz clears up his throat. “Is that your fucking line?”

“I—” Baz follows Simon’s Adam’s apple as he swallows. “I mean—”

Baz shuts him up, clashing his mouth against Simon’s. “Just shut up, Snow,” he says, between breaths, as he continues thrusting his hips up against Simon.

Simon takes the hint and resolves with the movement, pulling at the hem of Baz’s pyjama bottoms. “Okay.”

Simon lets go of Baz’s mouth as he strips him down, and then they’re both only in underwear. (Still too many clothes.) Simon gropes Baz’s hardness through his briefs and—as if that weren’t enough—he gives it a nibble, murdering Baz’s eloquence in the process.

Simon creeps a hand into Baz’s briefs and starts stroking his length. Baz copies him, sneaking his hand under Simon’s boxers. If they keep it like that, Baz knows he isn’t going to last much longer. “Snow,” he manages. “Clothes… off. Now.” It’s a struggle to form complete words when he has Simon caressing the tip of his cock.

Simon complies, stripping them both off their underwear. And suddenly they’re completely naked.

And then it strikes Baz: They’re doing it. Like, for real. They’re having sex. Although, Baz still doesn’t rule out he’s stepped into one of his fantasies. Except, Simon is way clumsier than his mind normally makes him be, and keeps talking and asking Baz for permission. In Baz’s dreams, his mouth is usually too busy to talk.

Once Baz nods in agreement though, Simon is merciless. He looks at Baz, licking his lips before taking Baz’s length and swallowing him whole. Baz clenches his fists on the sheets, so as not to come in Simon’s mouth. “Simon—”

Simon does the opposite of stopping, massaging his balls with his other hand.

 _This_ , Baz thinks,  _this is how Simon ends me_.

With a lick, and after long suffering minutes, Simon ends the blowjob. He climbs back up and kisses Baz, taking both their lengths with his hand.

They’re both panting and moaning when Simon stops and looks at Baz. “Do you—” His voice is hoarse and shaky. “Do you want to…” He trails off, shifting his gaze to their erections, then back up at Baz. When Baz realises what Simon is proposing, every last brain cell he had left in his head instantly dies. Because, Aleister Crowley, Simon wants to go all the way. Simon wants to fuck Baz.

It’s every bit as erotic as he’s always imagined it. (No, more.) Simon biting his swollen lip, asking Baz to have sex with him. It’s a struggle not to ruin the moment by coming hard before Simon even touches him again.

Baz manages a graceless nod that surely makes him look too eager, but whatever. Because this is happening.

Simon starts caressing Baz’s hole. “Wait,” Baz commands. He doesn’t miss the hint of disappointment in Simon’s face. Could he possibly think Baz is going to say no? How oblivious is this boy?

With one hand, Baz manages to open the last drawer of his nightstand. He takes the lube out and tosses it to Simon. “Oh,” he says. “Right.”

Simon slips a finger into Baz’s entrance, tentatively. Then two. When he considers that Baz is ready he grabs his cock, rubbing it against Baz’s arse.

He ungracefully fumbles around his nightstand until he finds a condom. If Baz weren’t so eager he’d probably give it more of a thought to the fact that Simon has condoms in his nightstand. But his whole attention is focused on Simon opening the wrapper with his teeth and unrolling the condom down his length.

Then, Simon pauses and looks up at Baz. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Is he sure? Idiot. Oblivious. Bloody fucking Snow. It’s embarrassingly obvious how sure Baz is. And Simon wants him to say it out loud. Baz is sure he’s doing it on purpose. Some kind of twisted way to humiliate him.

“We can stop if you don’t want to,” says Simon. “We can do other things. Or nothing at all. Or… we can switch.”

Baz should probably tell him to shut up and just do it, but he’s too turned on by the idea of Simon willing to let Baz fuck him that he’s lost the ability to form coherent thoughts, much less real words.

Instead, with one hand, Baz pulls Simon into a kiss, shoving his tongue as deep into his mouth as he can. With the other hand, he takes Simon’s already lubricated cock and leads it into his hole. He trusts Simon to do the rest.

Simon places Baz’s legs to both sides of his hips, giving him a better angle. Baz tugs at Simon’s hair as he thrusts in.

It’s not as painful as he’d imagined it would be but Baz can’t help wincing.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Simon says, breaking the kiss. “I’m stopping.”

“Don’t you dare,” Baz says, through gritted teeth.

“But—” Simon starts. “Baz.” He’s looking at him with a pained expression. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Snow,” Baz says, pulling Simon’s face down. “If you don’t start moving soon I swear I’ll murder you. Right here, right now.”

Simon swallows. “Okay.”

Simon resolves thrusting into Baz’s entrance. Slowly. Baz helps him by grabbing Simon’s butt cheeks and guiding him. And when it’s comfortable enough, he starts matching Simon’s movements with his hips.

Not long after, Baz feels his fangs popping out, the way they do when he’s about to climax.

Shit.

He breaks the kiss but he’s unable to hide his fangs, or contain the orgasm.

“Wicked,” he hears Simon whisper before he, too, goes over the edge.

Simon is  _loud_. He makes these blissful sounds that make Baz wish he could listen to them in repeat all day. Against his mouth, preferably.

Simon collapses on top of Baz, body fluids and all. He kisses Baz just in time his fangs go back in.

And then they just lie there, in comfortable silence. Baz mindlessly runs his hand through Simon’s back.

Baz wishes he could live in this moment forever.

After some minutes, Simon retreats from Baz’s chest. “I need a shower,” he says.  _He’s already regretting this_ , Baz thinks. But then Simon adds, “You should join me.”

Yes, maybe this is a dream after all.

***

That was, with difference, the best experience of Simon’s life. He just had sex. With Baz. And it was amazing. (He wants to do it again.) (He wants to do it every day for the rest of forever.)

Knowing Baz, he must be already regretting it and, tomorrow, he’ll probably do as if nothing happened. But Simon isn’t going to let him forget. Not this time.

Not ever.

Because he likes this better than fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a chaptered fic. The reason I marked it as a oneshot is because I don’t know when I’ll get to writing the rest of it. Those of you who follow me already know that I’m Slow, capital-S. Sorry for that. Hope you’ve enjoyed this, stay tuned!  
> Thank you for reading ♡


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